Hey all~ I would love some feedback on how I’m doing thus far. But if not, a like or a kudos on AO3 is enough to get me moving again. This is the last of my chapters completely cleaned up. Next chapter I haven’t worked on much so it might not be released for a bit. Depression over here kicking my butt.
The Lady Who Disarmed the President
For those who would like to read on AO3, see below:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
For everyone else, keep reading:
~*~
Chapter 14: The Shadows That Move
~*~
The Dome District still carried the habits of the old terraforming structure, even though the climate systems had been shut down years ago. The massive arch of reinforced glass and steel remained fully intact, suspended over the city like a preserved relic of a bygone era. Its panels caught the night lights in soft reflections, turning the sky above the district into a mosaic of muted blues and fractured starlight.
Even without the old circulation engines, the dome’s architecture continued to shape the air. Wind from the open Martian night slipped through the gaps in the support lattice and moved along the curvature of the glass overhead. A faint breeze drifted through the district and traveled in slow, circling currents that whispered across rooftops and tugged gently at the manicured trees lining the estates.
Two figures stood on the rooftop, outlined only by the fractured glow of the Dome District’s lights.
The first stood tall, wearing a dark, close-fitting suit of segmented black armor that clung to her body like a second skin. Matte plates covered the torso and shoulders, designed to absorb impact without sacrificing mobility. A cloak hung over her left shoulder, its tattered edges shifting with the faint breeze. The hood concealed most of her face, but a pair of lavender eyes glimmered beneath the shadowed brim. Their color was striking even in the low light, narrowed and intense, focused on the mansion below with a precision that made the air feel sharper.
A compact harness wrapped around her hips, fitted with two grappling units and a pair of sheathed blades, one at each side, angled for a fast draw. The metal housings of the grapples were sleek and angular, built for rapid deployment. Thin cables coiled inside each device, ready to fire. Small thrusters lined the sides of the harness, quiet and dormant, waiting for activation.
The second figure crouched near the ledge. Their armor was heavy and predatory, shaped for force rather than finesse. Reinforced plating wrapped the chest and arms, giving the silhouette an unnatural solidity in the dark.
A metal gauntlet encased their right hand. Long, curved claws extended from each finger and caught the city’s glow in jagged reflections. The slow flex of those blades looked more like instinct than preparation.
Smoke drifted from the vents along the lower half of the mask. It curled upward in thin, pale ribbons, giving the impression of breath that did not belong to anything human. The mask’s eye lenses glowed faintly, two cold points of red light watching the mansion below with a stillness that felt predatory.
The figure looked less like a person and more like something the night had shaped for killing.
Neither spoke.
The breeze tugged at the cloaked figure’s tattered edges.
They didn’t move.
Below them, the mansion’s windows gleamed like polished mirrors, reflecting the neon veins of Elysium’s skyline. The district was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every distant sound feel amplified.
Metal claws scraped softly against the rooftop as the crouched figure shifted.
The cloaked one didn’t look over.
She didn’t need to.
”What do you see, Cain?”
Cain’s gaze stayed locked on a single window across the estate, where a man moved behind the glass, unaware of the two shadows perched above him.
The crouched figure finally spoke, voice low and gravelly.
“Alone…”
Rey exhaled once, slow and controlled. Her lavender eyes narrowed as she lifted her mask from where it rested against her collar. The device clicked softly as she locked it into place. Two white lights flared to life behind the lenses, glowing with a cold, steady intensity that erased any trace of her human expression.
The breeze shifted.
Their grappling units fired with a sharp metallic crack, cables streaking across the night. Thrusters ignited along their hips in brief flashes of blue-white light, propelling them forward.
~*~
A few moments earlier…
~*~
The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting an ambient warmth through the room. Shadows danced across the walls and ceiling, shifting with every flicker of the flames.
Duo had not left Valmonde’s side all day. The manor was large and quiet, its polished floors and high ceilings swallowing sound until the place felt hollow. Most of the security detail had already trickled down to a handful of men patrolling the exterior, their footsteps faint beyond the windows.
Inside, the silence pressed in.
Duo leaned back in his chair and stared at the shadows drifting across the ceiling. His Preventer jacket hung loosely over the armrest, and his legs were stretched out in front of him. He looked like a person waiting for something to happen, and growing more irritated by the minute that nothing did.
He was bored.
Painfully bored.
Valmonde sat at a small table near the hearth, reading a book with deliberate calm. He lifted his teacup every so often, sipping from it without looking up. One of his servants hand brought it in earlier, and the faint scent of mint still lingered in the air.
Duo watched the steam rise from the cup and wondered how a man could be so relaxed when someone was carving messages into walls and killing politicians.
He tapped his fingers against the armrest before grumbling softly to himself. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn deck of cards, the edges softened from years of use. The faint shuffle of paper was enough to draw Valmonde’s eyes up from his book.
Duo ignored the stare.
He thumbed through the deck with practiced ease, letting the cards glide between his fingers. One slipped free, then another, then a third, each motion smooth and quiet. He flicked a card into the air, caught it between two fingers, and spun it across his knuckles before sending it back into the deck without looking.
A moment later, a card appeared in his other hand as if it had always been there.
Valmonde watched him carefully, his book now forgotten.
Duo continued, letting muscle memory take over. He fanned the cards, snapping the deck closed, then made a single card vanish with a subtle twist of his wrist. It reappeared tucked behind his thumb, then vanished again when he flicked his fingers.
Valmonde watched the card vanish and reappear, his brows lifting slightly.
“That is … unexpectedly skillful.”
Duo paused mid-shuffle, one card balanced between his fingers. He glanced at Valmonde, expression flat but eyes faintly amused.
Valmonde’s gaze lingered on Duo’s hands, his voice soft but edged.
“Curious. I would not have expected the President’s son to learn something as cheap as parlor tricks.”
Duo spun the card again across his knuckles, the corner catching the firelight.
”And yet… you can’t stop watching, can ya, old man?”
Valmonde huffed in response, lifting his book to resume reading. His glasses slid lower on his nose as he pretended not to look again.
Duo smirked, eyes narrowing. He stood, sent the deck from one hand to the other, then slapped it back together before pulling a chair up and sitting directly across from Valmonde.
“Had to keep myself entertained when my dad was out being popular. Learned a few tricks.”
Valmonde turned a page, voice mild but edged with that familiar aristocratic bite.
”Entertained… or overlooked? I suppose even a President’s son must find ways to occupy himself when the spotlight isn’t pointed his way.”
Duo’s jaw tightened for half a second, just long enough to show the hit landed. He flicked the card once between his fingers, then leaned back in the chair with a slow, deliberate exhale.
His smirk returned, sharper this time.
”Funny you’d bring up spotlights.” He spun another card across his knuckles, eyes narrowing. “Considering you’ve got one pointed at you right now for that little off-world account you keep pretending doesn’t exist.”
Duo let the card vanish between his fingers, the motion smooth and practiced.
”At least my cheap tricks don’t get people killed.”
Valmonde's fingers froze at the edge of his page. For a moment, the firelight caught the lenses of his glasses, turning them opaque. He didn’t look up, but Duo could see the slight shift in his posture, the kind that meant the jab had landed.
When Valmonde finally spoke, his tone was calm, almost gentle.
”As I’ve said previously, young Maxwell, off-world investments are hardly unusual. It is far less dramatic than you seem to believe.”
He turned the page with deliberate care, as if the conversation were nothing more than a mild distraction.
Duo leaned forward, voice sharp.
“It’s Duo—and it’s unusual when the owner of the account is under an Omega-class encryption. That means someone is hiding something. That means whatever you’re investing in, you don’t want people to know.”
Valmonde exhaled softly through his nose, the kind of restrained sigh reserved for tedious committee hearings.
“Omega-class encryptions are applied automatically to certain categories of diplomatic intersector or transaction. They are not inherently suspicious.”
He removed his glasses, rubbing his eyes with his index and thumb before tiredly looking at Duo.
”You are young. You see shadows where there truly are none. And you assume intent where there is only bureaucracy.”
He lifted his teacup again, posture composed, voice smooth. “I assure you, Duo… the matter is far less interesting than you wish it to be.”
Duo’s eyes narrowed, “it’s certainly interesting to people who leave messages in blood saying they’re watchin’. Or sniping a man from across the city through the head… two of which are also tied into the account you're sending money to.”
Valmonde’s teacup paused halfway to setting it down on the table.
For a moment, the firelight caught the faint tension in his jaw. It wasn’t fear, no guilt, but irritation at being cornered. He set the cup down with deliberate care, fingers resting lightly on the porcelain as he regarded Duo with a tired, almost patronizing patience.
”Duo,” he began, voice smooth, “violence has a way of attaching itself to whatever the narrative is convenient. People see patterns where none exist.”
He folded his glasses and placed them beside the book, rubbing the bridge of his nose briefly as though the conversation itself were a tedious formality.
”A murder here, a threat there… and suddenly every transaction becomes a conspiracy.”
He leaned back, posture composed.
”But if it comforts you to imagine a villain, I suppose I cannot stop you.”
Duo’s jaw tightened fully now. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and cutting.
“Comfort’s got nothing to do with it.”
Valmonde’s eyes flicked up… barely.
Duo didn’t give him space to breathe. “Messages carved in blood, Valmonde. A sniper who knew exactly where Vassal would be standing and calculated the speed and resistance for the bullet on Mars. Two dead men tied to the same encrypted account you keep pretending is ‘procedural.’”
Valmonde’s fingers curled slightly against the armrest, but Duo pressed harder.
“You keep dodging like this is some committee hearing. But people are dying, Valmonde. People connected to you.”
A faint twitch crossed the older man’s jaw.
Duo’s voice dropped an octave, lips curling into a smile that resembled a crescent moon.
“So tell me again how I’m imagining shadows.”
Silence.
Valmonde’s gaze sharpened, the first real crack in his composure. He stared at Duo, unblinking, irritation simmering beneath the surface.
Duo held the stare, unflinching.
The older man finally grabbed his glasses and placed them back on. He stood, straightened his vest with a slow, deliberate tug, and clicked open his pocket watch to look at the time. The gesture was neat, controlled, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrayed him.
His voice was calm, but the edge was unmistakable.
”You will wait here.”
He turned toward the doorway, posture stiff, the firelight catching the polished buttons of his vest as he moved.
“If you insist on continuing this conversation, I will require brandy.”
He didn’t wait for Duo to respond or offer clarification.
Valmonde simply left the drawing room, footsteps measured as he crossed the hall and began ascending the stairs. The one place in his manor where he could regain his composure, recalibrate his mask, and decide how much of Duo’s accusation he was willing to entertain.
Valmonde disappeared behind a wall at the top of the staircase and Duo could hear a door clicking shut.
Duo sat back in his chair, the firelight catching the faint tension still coiled in his shoulders. He flicked the deck once between his hands, but the cards didn’t move with the same easy rhythm as before. His jaw worked, a slow grind of irritation he didn’t bother hiding now that Valmonde was gone.
He let out an annoyed breath through his nose.
“Yeah. Run upstairs. Go get your drink.” He muttered it under his breath, not loud enough to carry, but loud enough for the room to hear.
The silence pressed in around him. The grandfather clock continued to tick in the corner. The fire crackled as a log broke apart.
Duo leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the staircase as if he could still see the older man standing there.
”Bureaucracy, my ass. If he thinks I’m dropping this, he’s outta his mind.”
He shoved the deck of cards back into his pocket. His fingers drummed once against his knee, restless, and very much done with being talked down to. He shifted in his seat, leaning forward again with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor now instead of the staircase.
His thoughts churned.
Valmonde’s lying.
He wasn’t just lying, he was dodging.
Omega-class encryption didn’t just happen to accounts. Someone had to request it. Someone had to justify it. Someone had to hide something worth burying under layers of diplomatic red tape.
His jaw tightened.
Kestrel had been tied to that account. He had been tracking the deposits and withdrawals in his notebook.
Vassal had been tied to that account as well.
Now, both men were dead… and both violently.
Now there was Valmonde who was polished, smug, dismissive. He was sending money into the same black hole they were.
Duo exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing at the floorboards.
He’s definitely involved.
Maybe not directly, maybe not the trigger-pulling type, but Valmonde knew something, and he was part of that something. He was going to make him talk, brandy or no brandy, committee-hearing tone or no committee-hearing tone. He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his pocketed deck, grounding himself as the irritation settled into something colder and more focused, already thinking through the connections between Valmonde, Kestrel, and Vassal. Already deciding he wasn’t letting the older man slip away behind polished excuses and bureaucratic fog again.
He stared at the floor for a long moment, letting the fire crackle and the clock tick, letting the irritation settle into something sharper, colder, and more focused.
Then…
A loud thud from upstairs.
Duo’s head snapped up to look at the ceiling, all other thoughts drowning away.
Another thud. Heavier.
Then a sharp and startled scream, cut off almost immediately.
Followed by more thuds.
It was chaotic and wrong.
Duo bolted the moment he heard Valmonde’s scream, chair scraping back as he surged to his feet, hands empty but ready. His instinct taking over long before thought could catch up.
He took the stairs two at a time, hand skimming the banister not for the balance but for the speed, his breath sharp in his chest.
Another thud. Heavier this time, muffled. Somewhere to his left.
Duo’s pulse kicked.
He reached the landing, boots sliding slightly on the polished floor as he pivoted toward the corridor leading to Valmonde’s office. The air felt colder here, like the manor itself was holding its breath.
”Valmonde!” His voice echoed down the hallway, swallowed by the thick wood and old plaster.
No answer.
He moved faster.
His hip clipped a side table, sending a porcelain vase wobbling, but he didn’t stop to steady it. His focus tunneled on the closed door at the end of the hall, the one Valmonde had disappeared behind minutes ago.
Duo reached it, breath tight, adrenaline sharp. He grabbed the handle and yanked the door open, stumbling a half-step into the room.
And then froze.
A tall, cloaked figure stood framed in the window, its silhouette carved out by the glow of the city beyond. Bladed claws hung at its side, dripping slow, deliberate rivulets of blood that pattered softly onto the floor. Thin trails of smoke drifted from the mask, curling into the cool air, while two red orbs turned toward Duo with an unnatural, steady focus.
The room itself felt wrong. It was too still, too cold, as if the air had been sucked out. A lamp on the desk flickered weakly, its light catching on overturned papers and a chair knocked askew, small signs of struggle that made Duo’s stomach twist.
He felt the air punch out of his lungs. His gaze dropped, just once, to the floor where Valmonde lay crumpled. He had to wrench his eyes away immediately, bile rising sharp in his throat.
Valmonde wasn’t recognizable any longer.
And just ten minutes ago, Duo had been needling him for information.
Now his chance is gone. Violently, irrevocably gone.
His eyes snapped up to the figure in the window, who had not moved or flinched, watching Duo with a still patience. The red orbs didn’t shift. They simply waited, as if studying him, measuring him.
“What the hell—“ Duo began, voice cracking through the tension.
A shift in the dark to his right, low and fast, the kind of motion his eyes almost dismissed as a trick of the flickering lamp. But his body understood before his mind did, some old wartime instinct screaming that the shape in the window wasn’t the only thing in the room.
He turned his head, too slow, too late.
A second figure was already closing the distance, moving with none of the other’s heavy, deliberate stillness. This one was fast. Silent. Low to the ground, closing the gap between the far wall and Duo before he’d even finished the turn, boots barely seeming to touch the floor.
He caught only fragments. A dark hood. The gleam of something pale and white flashing beneath it. A cloak, tattered at the edges, snapping once behind her like something alive.
His mind screamed at him to move.
His body didn’t.
He’d spent the last several seconds locked onto the figure in the window, on the dripping claws, on the wrongness of that mask, and his instincts trained as they were, had aimed themselves at the wrong target. The threat he could see. Not the one already inside his reach.
By the time his brain caught up to what his eyes had registered, she was already there.
Something slammed into his neck, a sharp, precise sting. A needle. Heat bloomed instantly beneath his skin, spreading like wildfire. His hand shot out for anything nearby, fingers scraping the edge of the doorframe as his knees buckled.
His vision blurred.
The room tilted.
The masked figure in the window fractured into streaks of red and black.
His head throbbed, heavy and distant, like it was being pulled underwater.
And then… it all turned black.
~*~
Rey registered Duo’s collapse before she consciously processed it. Her mask fed her information in a cascade of clean, clinical overlays. Vital signs flickered across the lower corner of her vision, each metric shifting from stable green to warning yellow. A profile populated beside it, sliding into place with practiced efficiency. Duo Maxwell II. Preventer operative. Son of President Maxwell. Combat history. Mobile Suit pilot. Psychological markers. Risk assessments.
The mask’s HUD highlighted Valmonde’s body behind her in a stark red outline. A recommendation pulsed at the edge of her vision, urging relocation of the unconscious Preventer to avoid misinterpretation. Another line of text followed, cool and precise. Evidence contamination risk. Clear the scene. Relocate witness.
”Dammit,” she muttered, the voice modulator twisting the word into something metallic and low.
She knelt beside Duo, sliding her arms beneath his shoulders. His weight sagged heavily against her, the sedative already dragging him under. Heat radiated from his skin, a chemical bloom that her HUD tracked with steady, pulsing lines. She braced her stance and hauled him upward, armor plates shifting with the strain.
Behind her, Cain remained at the window. He did not speak. He did not move. Smoke drifted from the vents of his mask in slow ribbons, claws dripping onto the floor in soft, slowing taps. His presence was a shadow carved out of the night, patient and predatory.
Rey ignored him.
She dragged Duo backward, pulling him out into the hallway. His boots scraped across the polished floor, leaving faint streaks behind. She kept her movements controlled and efficient, refusing to let the ruined body in the room remain in his line of sight. The HUD continued to pulse warnings, estimating security response times and marking the safest extraction routes in faint blue lines along the edges of her vision.
She propped him against the wall just outside the office. His head lolled, breath shallow but steady enough to keep her moving. The mask fed her another quiet assessment. High probability of political escalation. High probability of misattributed involvement. Immediate relocation recommended.
Cain stepped away from the window at last. He crossed the room with silent, heavy steps, the glow of his lenses steady and unreadable.
”Saint,” he growled, voice low.
She did not look at him.
“Clean the room,” she ordered quietly. “Leave the message.”
Cain’s gaze flicked once toward Duo, then toward the ruined body in the room. Smoke drifted from his mask again, curling upward like breath that did not belong to anything human. He nodded once.
Rey tightened her grip on Duo’s arm long enough to ensure he wouldn’t slump sideways. The HUD continued to pulse warnings, each one sharper than the last. She could feel the seconds slipping away.
She leaned in close to Duo, her voice modulator softening just enough to sound almost human.
“I’ll make sure you don’t go down for this, kiddo…”
The mask marked the narrowing window for clearing evidence in a faint, pulsing line. Rey exhaled once, steady and controlled, letting the cold data settle into her awareness. The hallway behind her was quiet except for Duo’s uneven breathing, the sedative still dragging him further under.
She turned back toward the office.
Cain was already moving.
Not fast or frantic, but with that heavy, deliberate precision that made every motion feel inevitable. Her HUD tracked him automatically, marking each step with faint blue telemetry. He crossed the room in slow, controlled strides, boots leaving shallow impressions in the blood on the floor. He paused near the wall, claws flexing once, the metal catching the flicker of the lamp.
For a moment, Rey watched the way his shoulders rose and fell, the way the smoke curled from his mask in steady ribbons. He wasn’t rushing. He was finishing.
Only when the last claw stroke carved clean through plaster did he step back.
The message was stark and deliberate, each letter gouged deep into the wall.
Lazarus is watching.
Cain’s silhouette loomed beside it, still and predatory, as if the words themselves were an extension of him.
Rey’s HUD pulsed again, marking the completed task and updating the countdown.
She stepped carefully toward the window, using Mars’ lower gravity and the faint hum of her thrusters to guide her past the blood on the floor. She landed on the windowsill with practiced ease, cloak settling around her in a soft ripple.
“Cain,” she said, voice low. “Let’s move.”
~*~
Night had fallen hours ago, but Maxwell was still in his office, hunched under the lamplight, fingers threaded through his hair like he was trying to keep his skull from splitting open.
He hadn’t moved in a long time.
The reports on his desk blurred together into a sea of white. Preventer briefings, ballistic analyses, diplomatic cables, all of it stacked so high it felt like the weight alone might crush him. He stared at the papers without really seeing them, jaw tight, breath shallow.
He had spent the entire day drowning in the fallout of T&E’s Deputy Secretary Adrian Kestrel’s murder. The message carved above him, written in blood. The way the body had slumped against the wall like someone had just switched him off.
Lazarus is watching.
The hell did that mean?
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily.
And then there was Vassal.
A completely different crime scene. No message, no theatrics, just a clean shot from a distant skyscraper. The kind of shot only someone trained could make. Ex military. Likely former Alliance. Someone who knew exactly what they were doing and exactly who they were killing.
Maxwell leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
“Damn it all…”
He wasn’t built for this. He wasn’t built for politics, for assassinations, for diplomatic fallout, for being the one everyone looked at when bodies started dropping. He had only been president for one year and already he felt like he was drowning.
And Dorothy Catalonia wasn’t making it any easier. Now the ESUN President, she had been messaging him nonstop from Earth, each transmission wrapped in that deceptively polite coyness she used when she wanted answers without ever admitting she wanted answers. Her phrasing was all soft inquiries and graceful turns of language, requests for clarifications, context, and any developments Mars might be willing to share.
But Maxwell knew exactly what she meant beneath the velvet.
Why was an ESUN Appropriations Committee representative murdered on your soil, and how fast can you convince me Mars isn’t falling apart under your leadership?
He couldn’t blame her. He would have done the same.
But every message felt like another weight on his chest.
He flicked his thumb against the inside of his index finger, a nervous habit he had carried since childhood, and tried to steady his breathing.
Kestrel dead.
Vassal dead.
Both tied to the same encrypted account Duo had been digging into.
Both murdered within forty eight hours.
And now Valmonde was the only remaining person alive who could provide answers. Every request Maxwell sent to him had been dodged or deflected, Valmonde insisting he was far too busy while offering empty condolences to the families affected.
Maxwell’s stomach twisted.
He didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know who Lazarus was. He didn’t know why people were dying.
But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
Something was coming.
Something big.
He fell back against his office chair, head tilted as he stared at the ceiling again. The lamplight made everything feel smaller, tighter, like the room itself was closing in on him.
He considered leaning on his Councilors now. Unfortunately, that meant Councilor Bronson, who oversaw Defense and Security, would be the first name on his list. Maybe even Councilor Tesh, to talk infrastructure and prevention measures, because clearly Mars needed both. And inevitably, that would drag Councilor Wisteria back into his office, and he really didn’t have the stamina to get railed about the bleeding budget again.
She would probably begrudgingly agree with Bronson that security needed to be tightened overall. Hell, Maxwell himself had slipped through the cracks back when he was a teenager, trying to get as far away from Hilde as she had demanded him to. He had stowed away on a sweeper shuttle heading for Mars, no clearance, no oversight, no one noticing until he was already halfway there.
Now here he was, having to put together plans to make sure no one ever did what he had done.
He exhaled loudly and let his forehead meet the top of his desk with a soft thump. He could go for a glass of Wild Turkey right about now. Maybe two.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He sluggishly pulled it free, thumb dragging across the screen as he answered without looking. His voice came out rough.
“What?”
Hilde was on the line.
Her tone wasn’t panicked, but it wasn’t calm either. It was the kind of voice she used when she was holding herself together by sheer force of will.
“Hey,” she said softly, “Valmonde is dead.”
He froze.
She continued before he could speak.
“And Duo… Duo was found drugged. Right outside Valmonde’s room.”
Maxwell didn’t speak at first. Hilde’s words hung in the air, heavy and unreal, and for a moment he simply stared at the far wall of his office as if the meaning might rearrange itself into something less catastrophic.
Duo had been found drugged.
Right outside Valmonde’s room.
His breath stalled halfway in his chest. His hand tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened, and the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the desk lamp. He didn’t stand or shout or drop the phone. He just sat there, frozen, as the words sank in.
His voice finally broke through the silence, rough and barely shaped into a word. “Drugged?”
“Yeah,” she responded. “Security arrived on the scene and found him. Then they found Valmonde. He’s being transported to Elysium General now.”
Hilde explained everything, her tone steady but strained. Maxwell heard pieces of it, fragments that didn’t connect. Security. Hallway. Unconscious. Medical team. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the rest.
He pushed back from the desk so abruptly the chair skidded across the floor. He stood too fast, vision blurring for a moment, one hand braced against the table to steady himself.
“Hilde,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Is he breathin’?”
She answered, but he didn’t hear the words. He only remembered the tone.
That was when he moved.
He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair, nearly dropping his phone as he fumbled with the sleeve. His hands shook so badly he had to switch the phone to his other hand. He was already heading for the door, already halfway through the threshold before he realized he hadn’t even locked his office.
“Hilde, keep talkin’,” he muttered, breath uneven. “Tell me everything. I’m on my way to the hospital now.”
~*~
Thank you so much for reading!!
Comments feed my brain
But Kudos fuel my descent into delightful madness.
